


Matters of address

by valiantfindekano



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: M/M, Possible spoilers for final episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it is too much to hope that Jingim might see he was in error, but part of him still wants to hear it. He is not sure what status they have now; they are not enemies, he thinks, but neither are they friends, and with that matter still between them, the possibility seems unlikely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of address

Marco has just enough time to hide away his diary before the prince and his entourage force their entry to his chambers. It isn’t so much the lack of warning that surprises him, but the fact that Jingim is even walking at all—the last he saw of him, a matter of days ago, he was still recovering from his wounds.

There are still bruise-like shadows under the prince’s eyes, and his clothes do not seem to hang as well as they usually do, either because of a loss of weight or an addition of bandages or some combination of the two. He looks lively, though, and intent on some purpose, and Marco hastily stands.

“Latin,” Jingim greets coolly. Marco inclines his head, and his lip turns. It’s a smile, but the expression is one born of annoyance, not any particular sense of joy. Even if—despite himself—he is glad to see the Khan’s son on his feet once again.

“Jingim,” Marco responds.

He fully anticipates what he’ll hear in return. “Prince.”

“— _Marco_.”

Jingim scowls, but for the moment he says nothing. Instead, with only a slight wave of his hands and a pointed glance towards the door, he dismisses the guardsmen who stand behind him, and Marco wonders if he ought to be relieved. It might be a sign of trust—but what is he to make of having private audience with the prince?

“I wanted to speak with you,” Jingim continues quietly once the door is closed behind his men.

“Is it,” Marco guesses, “about the battle?” Or perhaps all that preceded it? Maybe it is too much to hope that Jingim might see he was in error, but part of him still wants to hear it. He is not sure what status they have now; they are not enemies, he thinks, but neither are they friends, and with that matter still between them, the possibility seems unlikely.

“You have earned thanks from my father,” Jingim says, giving a passive shrug. “I do not wish to repeat what he has said. I also do not wish to apologise for doubting you.”

Marco nearly flinches at that, but he thinks he hides it well.

“Had you been untrue,” Jingim continues, “it would have been necessary for you to die. You understand that.”

_Does he purposely wish to inflame my temper?_ Marco narrows his eyes, wondering if Jingim doesn’t take some kind of perverse delight in his suffering. It does not bode well for them being here, in private—Jingim wears a blade at his side, too—

“But I would have missed you.”

“— _pardon?_ ”

Jingim takes a breath, then a tentative step forward towards Marco. “I called you brother,” he says, and Marco thinks now he can hear some kind of nervousness in the prince’s voice. “But I must tell you… my thoughts towards you have not been… wholly _appropriate_ as between brothers.”

Marco swallows. Had those words been spoken in a different tone, he would have taken it as a sure sign of Jingim’s wish to slay him. He isn’t used to seeing vulnerability with Jingim, however, and that is what this suggests.

“We,” Marco begins, _are not brothers_ —but he does not want to deny whatever relationship they have, brotherly or not, so he hesitates.

That is when Jingim makes his move. With surprisingly swift steps he moves to place one hand on the back of Marco’s neck, the other landing on his hip to pull him forward. He’s too surprised by that alone to do anything about it when Jingim’s lips crash into his own—teeth knock into his lip, their noses bump, and the next thing he knows he’s returning the kiss.

By the time they part, they’re both breathing heavily, but their eyes seem to meet in the same moment. Jingim’s eyes flicker towards Marco’s bed, and Marco gives a very small nod, better judgement momentarily forsaken.

* * *

The extent of his own optimism strikes Marco the next day. There is no love-stricken softness in Jingim’s expression when he glances towards Marco; he stands as tall as he always does, and unfailingly, because he is Prince Jingim, he finds occasion for cutting remarks and accusations at every turn.

Marco can pretend it is a coincidence that finds them leaving the hall at the same time. His steps are rushed in his haste to leave; Jingim’s are languid and confident, and it’s possible he is waiting for anyone else—except he notices Marco’s presence immediately. He pauses, letting the guards walk on ahead.

“Why do you frown so? Are you displeased?” In this, Jingim at least seems sincere, so Marco exhales, waiting for the guards to take the necessary few steps further away from them before he can confess his thoughts. But Jingim interrupts him before the first word escapes his mouth. “Was I not more kind to you today?”

Surely that is a joke. “Jingim—“ Marco begins to protest, and as soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn’t. The smile that crosses the other man’s face is far too childish than it has any right to be, and it looks shockingly out of place on one normally so refined. Their eyes lock. 

“Prince,” Jingim corrects. “You call me Prince… _Latin_.”


End file.
